


threadbare

by selvish



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Blood Magic, Enemies to Lovers, Immortality, M/M, Manhunt Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), More tags to be added, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-22 23:00:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30046098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/selvish/pseuds/selvish
Summary: Dream has one goal: to see the end of the world. If that means letting his body die hundreds of times, foraging documents to creates thousands of false identities, and never letting his soulmates catch him, that's what he will do.He promised the merciful God that he would accept his role as Threadrunner to be united with the two who share his soul, to be found and loved by them in eternal salvation, but instead he's made it into a game. He can run forever, with no shackles of permadeath holding him down. If he can keep running, he can never really die.
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound/Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), GeorgeNotFound/Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 32
Kudos: 90





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> remember to ship privately, do not share this with ccs or mention fic in donos
> 
> enjoy <3

**Dream** — Moscow, Russia  _ 1946 _

With his hat perched so precariously on his head, Dream should have expected something to go wrong. Moscow was unholy in the winter: intense wind and a cold that never faltered. The sun shone above full of mockery and no warmth, hanging over the heads of a defeated success. How can you call yourself a winner when so many have died?

How can Dream call his life a success story, when his body has perished so many times? When he’s never found the one thing he’s supposed to be looking for?

Because it’s a game.

World War 2 ravaged over the country he had called home for the last few decades. He took his blonde hair and towered his six foot three body over the other boys readying for battle, soaked up their nervousness and made himself shine brighter. The higher ups thought he was crazy, the way he pushed himself to the front lines in every battle.

_You have a death wish_ , they would tease, heavy accents blurring the line between languages. In war, there was no law of language, only what one could mean to say. He would reply easily, a cocksure look on his face: _I do,_ _sir._

Dream was addicted to death. Hundreds of years ago when he died for the first time, he woke again ready for action. Life was a game, the oblivion after death the only sure thing. What was there to fear when you had mastered death? When you skirt the oblivion? You play the game forever, and you win. Every time.

All he had to do was keep running. Keep winning. It didn’t matter how many identities he cycled through, how many papers he foraged and corpses of his own form he left behind, he would always come back as long as he kept running.

The wind lifts his hat off of his head, and he can’t turn around fast enough before it hits the dirt. A young girl, chasing after him looking for food, steps on it and falls down to the rough asphalt. Her blood and the dust from her hands quickly makes the olive fabric filthy, and he watches her stand with an unreadable expression on his face.

“I’m sorry, sir.” Her voice is soft, shame soiling the Russian that falls from her mouth.

“Lada!” A woman calls from a nearby doorstep. “You should be ashamed, sullying a soldier’s clothes.” She turns to Dream and bows her head. “I’m sorry for my daughter, soldier. Please forgive her.”

Dream smiles, placing his hand on the girl’s head. She buckles slightly under the touch, eyes wide. He had picked up that the people here aren’t very interactive, especially with those in the military. Respect is held above all else, after a war like the one they’ve had.

“There’s no need to apologize.” He replies in confident Russian, his voice sounding too loud on the quiet street. There’s no one else around, so he feels more comfortable than usual. Dream takes his hat back from where it rests between the girl’s shaking hands. “I can always clean it. Have a good day.”

Lada’s mother, it seems, is quite taken aback by his kind demeanor. She nods wordlessly, ushering her daughter back. Dream holds his smile, not turning and moving on until they’re inside. People are so funny sometimes, he muses. They have no idea how ridiculous their mannerisms seem to someone who’s seen it all.

He moves on, kicking up dirt on the street as he walks. Every once in a while a car drives by and the driver assesses him, nodding at his uniform. Once he gets closer to the center of town, he watches people move out of the way of his steps. They huddle closer to speak as they watch him with careful eyes. He’s learned not to smile too much, so he merely nods as he goes by.

The corner shop beckons him, he can see the plumes of smoke rise from the chimney. He gets up to the door, hits his boots against the step to clear excess gravel and snow, and enters to see two men behind the counter.

“Hello, soldier, how can we help you today?” One man greets not unwarmly.

“Hello sir, I’m just looking for some staples. I don’t have much money after the war and all, but I can give you what I have in exchange for something that will last me.”

Peering at him from behind the counter, the man who hasn’t spoken takes in his defiled uniform.

“It’s unbecoming of a man to allow his uniform to fall into such disarray.” He says cooly, causing Dream to clench his jaw.

“A girl down the street, her name is Lada, she came to me in search of food and comfort. My hat fell off and she gave it back, dirtying it.”

“Lada.” The second man tests the name in his mouth.

“We know Lada. She is a beautiful, but silly girl. Were you kind to her?” The first man says, a light showing in his eyes that aches to tease.

Dream smiles back, nodding his head and letting a blush form on his cheeks. The men adopt a more fatherly gaze, looking at him like  _ you sly dog _ .

“I was kind, sir, placed my hand on her head and helped her back to her mother.”

“Good lad.”

So easy, this game.

The two men look at each other and nod, and the first one reaches under the counter to pull out some bread. The other moves to the cooler by the cash register and takes out two fish. He pauses for a moment, then takes a bottle of kefir as well.

“We will give you two fish, a loaf of bread, and a kefir. No charge. We must be appreciative of all kindness in times like this.”

“Thank you, sirs.” Dream says, holding out his arms to take the goods. They’re wrapped tightly in a burlap sack, and he pulls it over his shoulder. Before leaving he nods his head and promises to return to buy sometime. The men nod like they believe them, and he holds his laughter in. 

Back outside, he allows himself to grin up at the sky. When he walks towards his home, there is a spring in his step. He needs to be careful, mindful that no one sees such a jolly traveller with a sack of food, but he doesn’t really think about it.

The housing he has is humble, given to soldiers as a temporary aid until the economy picks up post-war. His bed is unmade, and a sleek tabby cat is curled atop the sheets.

“Patches.” He says into the room, knocking on the doorway until she picks her head up. “I have food.”

“Did you pay for it?” Patches asks from inside his head, already knowing the answer.

“I helped a girl, that’s payment enough.”

She makes a displeased huffing noise, settling back into the cot. Dream pads over to the table, picking up his knife and opening the bag to start gutting his fish. He hasn’t had fresh food in a long time. There’s no need for eating to live in his immortal state, but sometimes it’s nice to enjoy something like he used to.

The chamber pot underneath the table is soon filled with bones and scales, and he’s whistling as he works. Occasionally a tired body will wander past his door, drawn by the smell. Despite the open door, Dream fixes those who pass by with a cold stare, encouraging them to continue walking. He doesn’t make friends where he goes, they’re all temporary, monotone people in his technicolour world.

Patches eventually tires of her resting. She sits up and grooms herself idly, side eyeing the second fish as he starts cleaning it. Slowly, she’s been getting more restless. It’s not often Dream stays in a place for very long, the threat of being caught always keeping him moving.

It’s pretty easy to block her out most days, he’s had plenty of practice.

"You are wasting time, Threadrunner." Patches’ voice crowds into his head, demanding attention.

"Time is mine, Patches, I have hundreds of years." He replies, switching to English to ease the building headache.

Her tail lashes as she stands to all fours. "You have  _ wasted _ hundreds of years. Busying yourself with foolish mortal lifetimes of war and lust. Your arrogance will be your downfall." 

"My arrogance keeps me alive." 

"This is not a life. Your second chance was meant to be a way to gain the love you lost, not to run." 

Dream smiles, it comes out more like a grimace. "Thread _ runner _ , Patches, the fun is in the name. What's the beauty in love that's easy? The thrill of the chase is where I find love worth having." 

"You make me sick. A merciless God would smite you where you stand." 

"Then I thank my God for mercy-" 

"You dare to lay claim on a God that owes you nothing?!" She’s all flared up now, hackles raised and looking like she wants to jump on his face.

He looks over to her and opens his arms like a dare. The knife in his hand is soaked in blood; still, it glistens in the sunlight. "I lay claim on it all. This game is mine, time only stops when I do.”

It’s so easy for him to rile others up sometimes.

"Self centered,  _ idiotic _ human. The world ends whether you find them or not. You have the chance to get out and find salvation before everything goes up in flames, yet you choose to wait? Yet you fan the flames higher?"

Patches’ eyes are wide, a snarl embedded in her face.

"You sound angry." He pushes, watching as her left ear twitches.

She settles back into a seated position, but her ear continues to twitch. "I do not fein to experience such troublesome emotions as 'anger'. I feel nothing, you know this. You need to get through your head that you are not the one in power." 

"I disagree." 

"You have not seen your Thread in decades. You will not find it again without my help." 

Dream relaxes back into his chair, closing his eyes and moving his right hand in the sign of the cross over his chest. He’s still holding the knife, but placed the dead fish on the table. Patches hisses from her spot on the bed. He blocks it out, mouths his prayer silently until he gets to the end. Looking over at her with vacant eyes he states: 

"Amen." 

She’s gone as soon as he finishes the word. A blade of lonesome cuts into his chest, so he turns and looks out the window. Outside, there are car horns blaring, people shouting. In his room, he’s incredibly by himself.

He doesn’t have to be alone, he knows this. There is such an easy solution to the plague of isolation he keeps to himself. Somewhere, out in the world, there are two people looking for him tirelessly. His Needlepoint, his Bobbin, the other sides to the perfect, equal triangle that perfects his soul. 

Occasionally, when he lies in bed at night, his eyes roll back into his head. His ears fill with blood and the sound of voices reaching out for him. They beg him to be found, they beg him to come home, they beg him to stop running. He can’t do it, though, there’s too much mystery in what comes next.

Something he doesn’t let himself think about is the time between his death and his second life: the nothing. The oblivion. It haunts him, creeps up to him on dreamless nights where he wakes up already crying. Salvation is promised to him, but what is salvation? When there’s no world to be in, when you’re a completed soul in the universe, what is the point? He wants questions, wants doubts, he wants to never stop.

Perhaps he was too eager to say he has a death wish, he only wishes for death when he doesn’t need to hold the commitment. Following his Thread, finding the one who will hold him steady, the one who will drive him forward, it’s too unpredictable. Too many questions.

Oh, it’s all a contradiction, isn’t it?

Dream drives his knife into the wood of his table, narrowly avoiding spearing his dinner in half. He looks at the way his hand shakes on the grip of the blade. He feels weak in moments like this, like he needs to prove himself. Now is when he would move, go somewhere new and get drunk on life in that lovesick way that makes his head spin. Maybe he’ll go South, find a home that’s a little warmer, less plagued by war.

He stands up suddenly, making someone in the hall jump. Dream whips his head to make eye contact with one of his fellow soldiers, taking in his curled and fearful form.

“What?” He asks, thankfully remembering to not speak in English.

“The stove,” The man says, clearing his throat before continuing. “I left it lit for you, I thought you would want to cook your fish.”

Dream nods, feels the tenseness of his shoulders relax a little. “Thank you.” He replies plainly, giving the faintest hint of a smile when the man nods back. The soldier smiles as well, and heads to his room. Dream’s chest aches, and he focuses his attention back to the fish. He wishes Patches was still here, he probably wouldn’t see her for days now that he’s pissed her off this bad.

With his hands full, he heads to the kitchen. It’s warm in here, the cool stone of the stove and floor heated by the roaring fire. No one else is in here, and Dream notices it’s getting late. He doesn’t really sleep, so it’s not a big deal, but he’d rather not trip any alarms of those he’s surrounded by. Inhuman behaviour has never been well recieved.

He stops whistling, just cuts the fish into small pieces and digs around for a pan. There’s some salt hidden in a cabinet, and he adds it liberally. The meat starts cooking, filling the room with an intoxicating smell. He lets himself smile, turning the pieces slowly so they cook evenly. The bread he got toasts as well, and he thinks about how nice butter would be. Maybe in the next place he goes, they’ll have it in surplus. He’ll bathe in it, if he can.

Another soldier walks by the kitchen, looking in curiously and hurrying by once they see it’s Dream who’s in here. He’s not unfriendly, but he set his boundaries with the other soldiers pretty early. He is not one to exchange niceties with.

The fish is well cooked, and he gathers it onto a plate with the toast. He cleans the pan quickly in the salt, then heads back to his room to eat.

Someone is in the doorway to his room, and he clears his throat behind them to watch them jump. The man turns and doesn’t look Dream in the eye, instead at his feet.

“You left the stove on for me so you could stick your nose in my room? How childish of you. If you wanted to poke around my belongings, you could have just said. All of the food I have is in my hand.” He towers over the other man, and his squared shoulders make him even more intimidating. “I don’t appreciate false kindness, I’d much prefer you just be rude from the start.”

“I’m sorry.” The man says, his head still hung. Dream doesn’t adust his posture, too aware of how many times he’s been bested by someone who can play kicked puppy. “We’re all just so hungry, yet you seem to always be fed. Can you blame me for trying?”

“I can.” Dream says, squinting his eyes when the man looks up at him.

“Please… If I could just- if I could just have one piece of bread, I’d be ever in your debt.”

“Hmm.” He muses, eyes shifting from his plateful to the soldier in front of him. Slowly, heavily calculated, he lifts of piece of toast from the stack and hands it to the man. He takes it with wide eyes, like he doesn’t believe it’s real. “I’ll be gone in the morning, call it a going away gift.”

“Thank you-” The soldier starts to say, but is cut off by Dream continuing.

“Don’t be pitiful. Just make sure someone good gets my room, I know most of you don’t have a window.”

Once he’s back in his room, the man having gone down the hall hopefully for the last time, he shuts the door and takes a deep breath. Guilt crawls in his stomach, and he wants to throw up into the rancid chamber pot. He swallows, and places his food on the table as he undresses into sleep clothes. When he eats, he eats slowly, savouring the taste like it’s going to be years until his next meal. It very well may be.

Only one way to find out. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for blood and a little emeto in this chapter
> 
> enjoy <3

**George** — New York City, NY, USA  _ 1946 _

Needlepoint, a driving force. To gather the Thread from one’s Bobbin, feel it run through the head and be tied into a knot; to pierce through the fabric of space and time itself and stitch them together. Bound together, no take backs.

George will love Sapnap forever, he knows this, if nothing else.

He holds him steady, arms ever wrapped around his waist, face dug into his neck where his pulse would beat if he was still alive. This isn’t living, is it?

“I wish you didn’t have to do this.” Sapnap murmurs against his warm skin, the dim lamplight washing the room in amber. When George turns his head to meet the other’s gaze, his eyes are the warmest honey colour, he can taste it. “I don’t like seeing you like that.”

“We have no choice, we’ve waited too long already.”

Sapnap knows he’s right, though he loathes to admit it. It’s been almost forty years since they’ve seen any trace of their remaining Thread. Once a decade, George reaches out into the world and looks for him, and once a decade he’s let down. He’s somewhere too far, content on staying, there’s no way to track him like this. Naturally he still tries, knowing Sapnap would never give up either. They have time, just not too much of it.

It’s not even so much as they’re running out of time, it’s more the constant disappointment is violent; it winds them for years. Putting yourself through unbearable pain to find someone and have them pull away every time, it’s torture. Though he’s never met the Threadrunner, his love for him burns in his stomach. As if he’s sick, feeling loyalty-drenched nausea in an incurable fester, for hundreds of years.

How can Dream stand this? How can he stand to be away from them?

He dreams of him: blonde hair, green eyes, a tall brooding figure that has never wavered in weakness. Somewhere out there is a man who is unshakable, and George yearns for him as he would for any missing piece of himself. Sapnap does too, though he only admits it in the dark of night when they’re exhausted and can never really sleep.

George looks out the window, watching people bustle below them with wonderstruck eyes at the bright city lights. Their apartment is above a theatre, and the gaudy signs only add to his headache. Perhaps he’s too cynical sometimes, he wonders idly how Sapnap can put up with the dark cloud over his head. As if he’s read his mind, Sapnap gives him another kiss to the neck.

“You’re thinking of him, aren’t you?”

“I’m always thinking of him. I know you are, too.”

Sapnap hums in agreement, letting his nose drag against his scratchy jaw. He’s desperate for a shave, but they haven’t had the money to buy a new razor.

“He can’t run forever, George. We’ll find him.” He says as he always does.

“How can you be so sure?” Like they’ve never had this conversation before.

“Because,” Sapnap pulls his arms back, stepping away from the other. George misses him instantly, like a drug withdrawal clawing at his guts. “He’s stubborn as all hell, but so are we. I’m not stopping until we find him, so find him we will.”

George turns, leaning his back against the window sill. A draft from the winter outside tickles at his lower back, and he shivers slightly. He looks at Sapnap with a soft smile, hoping he can feel the love rolling off of him in waves. Something about the way Sapnap’s voice sounds and his sturdy hands feel makes him believe him, foolishly and to the ends of the Earth. Every moment he thanks God that this one doesn’t run.

“Then I suppose it’s time to look.” George says, taking a deep breath that settles the anxiety building in his chest and making his hands tremble.

Before he can walk past Sapnap to the desk in their room, the younger man rests a hand on his shoulder. “My brave seeker.” He whispers, and George swallows roughly before nodding. The pressure he feels dissipates just slightly.

He walks to the desk and pulls a match from the book. With a firm grip he strikes, watching as the flame explodes to life, then calms to an even burn. There are three candles before him in a perfect triangle: red for strength and passion, blue for forgiveness and protection, and purple for spirituality and breaking the curse. Three is a magic number, the only way to be granted help from the universe, their God, is by following His rules. 

The candles burn unevenly, the fire quickly eating at the red candle, while the blue and purple flicker mellowly. Light dances in the reflection of George’s eyes, and he feels Sapnap watching him with an unguarded appreciation.

“Are you ready?” He asks, not looking away from the tools. In front of the candles is a single piece of red thread, found wrapped around George’s finger the day he came back to life. There’s no need to be careful with it, because it will never let itself be lost, always where it is needed.

Sapnap nods and takes a seat at the desk, and George seats himself in his lap gingerly. His arms wrap around him once more, and Sapnap’s head rests on his shoulder to watch the candles burn until his eyes are forced sightless. George takes the thread, wraps it around his right ring finger, and closes his eyes.

_ Cold wind whips at his naked form. He sees mountains sharing a slate grey colour with the surrounding buildings. The dirt road stretches before him endlessly, and the stones that wait to trip him are vibrating slightly. Magic crackles around him, Sapnap’s arms around his waist grounds him, and he opens his eyes as the first red tear of blood gathers at his waterline. He is connected to the Thread, he is the driving force, he is finding the Threadrunner. _

_ When his eyes are opened, the scene changes: a figure stands in front of him with his back turned. He is tall, blonde, and the red Thread tied to his ring finger is connected to George’s and Sapnap’s in a perfect line. There’s a tug at the string, and George feels Sapnap dig his feet into the dirt below them while he clears his throat to the blood building in his lungs. _

_ “Threadrunner,” Sapnap calls into the barren street, voice wet with thick liquid. _

_ Dream turns, and George sees blood running from his ears, dripping onto his bare shoulders. A red tear drips from his eyes down his cheek, and he almost wants to smile. His nose is upturned, his eyes shut tight as he listens to Sapnap’s voice sink into his brain. He processes the name, the source of it, and turns towards them. _

_ “Please,” Sapnap says, pausing to cough. George feels blood dirty the shirt he’s wearing  _ back in the apartment _ , and he forces himself to focus on the vision. “Come home, Dream, we’re not going to give up.” _

_ He hears him, George knows this, can watch the blonde’s face tense as he takes in the words. The Thread is stretched taut, pulling their hands up to reach out to each other despite the distance. He wants to touch him so bad his fingers twitch. Dream stands still, soaking in the feeling of being in the same plane as his soulmates. No matter how much he runs, George finds solace in these few moments they have together every ten years. It’s the closest they ever get to being complete. _

_ George takes in how torn Dream looks, his weight always shifting from foot to fit. The energy for running is restless inside of him, George can feel it around them like a dust storm. The pull of the Thread keeping him in place. For once, George thinks maybe they’re making progress. _

_ More blood drips down his face, he can taste it as it falls into his mouth, tainting his tongue with sharp copper that breaks his concentration. The spell is broken in that moment, and Dream takes a step back. _

_ “No! Please!” Sapnap calls out, blood bubbling into his mouth and choking him. He hacks it out with a pained gag, and George knows what’s going to happen next, what always happens. “Dream, please don’t run.” _

_ Dream swallows and George can feel the upset turn over in his brain. He can feel how much he wants to be with them, how much he aches to be held by them. Watching his lips turn into a hard line punches him in the gut, and he wants to scream. His mouth stays just barely open, and he knows it has to be this way. _

_ Another step back, the Thread tugs hard at their fingers. It hurts so bad, like the digit will be ripped from it’s socket with every step he takes away from them. George knows that the Thread can’t break, but sometimes in weak moments like this, he wishes it would. His face is damp with tears, his mouth an uncomfortable pool of blood that matches Sapnap’s. He wishes Dream could see what they do for him, what they go through just to be with him for a moment. Maybe it would be enough. _

_ “We’re going to find you, Dream. No amount of running will change that we will never stop looking.” Sapnap says, though it’s getting harder with so much blood trying to drown him. “We love you. We always will.” _

_ Like clockwork, because that’s always the last straw, Dream spins on his heel and takes off down the infinite street. The thread pulls and pulls, making George’s head spin with pain. Sapnap is screaming, the horrible wetness of it shaking George  _ in his lap. Held in his arms. George is-

Back in the apartment.

Sapnap leans over and vomits onto the floor, his shoulders shaking with the violence of it. The red candle is nothing but a pool of cherry wax seeping into the wooden desk, the flame extinguished. Beside it, the other two candles stand cooling as smoke curls from the black wicks. George leans over too, spitting blood onto the mess beneath them, they’re already going to have to clean it.

“Bastard.” Sapnap grunts, clearing his throat a final time and swallowing the remnants of spit, bile, and blood in his mouth.

“Trastevere.” George replies, staring blankly at the wall. Sapnap ignores him at first, still getting used to being able to hear again.

There’s a silence, and slowly George comes back to his body completely. The word he’s just uttered doesn’t make sense to his exhausted brain. He says it again, under his breath.  _ Trastevere. _

He stands up, and walks to the bookshelf where they keep a world atlas. Sapnap is still pretty spaced out, but when George gets up he wanders to the side of the room where they keep their cleaning supplies. While he scrubs at the floor, George turns the pages quickly.

_ Trastevere, Trastevere, where have I heard that before? _ George thinks to himself, looking for the word in the index at the back.

Under Italy, under Rome, he finds it. It’s a location, and exact one. A clue.

“Sapnap,” He breathes out, finger tracing a picture of cobblestone streets and tall buildings in black and white. There are clotheslines along the windows where people hang shirts to dry, and lush plants springing from high porches. It’s a beautiful place, looking slightly unreal; dream-like. “Sapnap, I know where he’s going.”

Sapnap looks up sharply, dropping the rag he was holding. He moves across the room and takes the book, looking at the information carefully. For years wherever Dream was, or was planning on going, was too far. This is just a hair closer, but it must be close enough for George to pick up on. It’s the first lead they’ve had in so long, he almost doesn’t believe it.

“I’d ask if you were sure, but I don’t really care if you are or not. We’re going.” The younger man says surely, looking at George’s messy and blood soaked face with a determination he hasn’t felt in centuries.

He picks up a different, clean rag from the pile of clothes by the bed. Slowly and with a gentle touch, he rubs some of the residue from George’s cheek. If he was a little bit more of a believer, he would be smiling.

“We’re going to find him.” George says, clean tears forming over his eyelashes. One drips down and clears a path through the red, and Sapnap runs the cloth over his cheek again. He doesn’t say anything as he cleans, just watches George look at him with the first glint of hope in his eyes. It would be easy to sink into it, count it as a victory, but he’s not quite ready for it.

“We will, thanks to you.” Sapnap replies, placing a kiss on the taller man’s forehead, so soft and careful, like he could shatter the hope with a wrong move. “My Needlepoint, my seeker, I could do nothing without you.”

George wraps his arms around Sapnap’s neck once his face is clean. He presses a matching kiss against his lips, just holding them close together.

“I only succeed with you behind me.” George whispers against his mouth, “I can pierce only with your hand to lead me.”

“Then I’ll lead you to Rome, towards our salvation.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> remember to subscribe/kudos/comment if u liked it! it makes me really happy :3
> 
> follow my twitter if u want, its @_selvish

**Author's Note:**

> alright let's see if i can do this. hehe. im very excited about this AU, i really really hope i can do it justice. i have absolutely no idea what my uploading will be like, but please be patient if u can
> 
> remember to kudos/comment/subscribe if u enjoyed, it motivates me a lot <3
> 
> my twitter is @_selvish , as always


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